


In Memoriam

by Ort



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Majora's Mask, The Legend of Zelda: The Ocarina of Time
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Post-Majoras Mask, Post-Ocarina of Time, Rating May Change, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-03-30 21:43:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19036168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ort/pseuds/Ort
Summary: He dreams of little horses running across a stitched plain.***Link tries.  Really.  But home is hard to find when there's nothing to return to.





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Oof. 
> 
> Anyways - if i think i need to warn about something it'll be here.

She does not know him.  

 

He watches, tucked away in an alley, as the procession passes, royal guards walking in unison.  Her eyes scan the crowd, unseeing; they pass over him as if he is nothing more than another stray cowering in the dirty streets - and his is, at least in this time.  He bites his lip and tries to tear his eyes from her form.

 

She is different.  There is a fullness to her figure he doesn’t remember, a plumpness to her breast and hip and face; the mark of a life unburdened by the sorrows of war.  In this time, she has never been forced to fight. She has eaten her fill of lavish feasts and slept on soft beds without ever having to fear it will all be lost.  

 

She strides, proud and regal, but out of place in the busy markets of Castle Town.  Her people gather around her, crowding like cuccos around grain, but she pays them little mind.  

 

Her eyes are blank with boredom.  She is the princess in this time, not a lost heir or a silent warrior; in this time, she has grown into her royalty and the ego that accompanies it.  

 

As she slips out of sight, swallowed by the crowd and her guards, he finds he is finally able to turn away.  

 

She does not remember him.  She would never, even if he were to meet her face to face.  In this time, there is nothing to remember in the first place.  

 

He leaves the town and does not come back. 

 

* * *

 

Instead, he rides.  He takes long paths through the fields and forests, winding through the trees.  He thinks of old friends and the soft glow of fairies. He considers returning to the trees of his childhood, of finding the glow of an old companion and retreating to a bed of wood and soft moss. 

 

He remembers a lone figure slumped against a hollow tree and children of bone, and thinks better of it. 

  
  


On the third night he camps under an old oak, his loyal steed grazing on the thin grasses of the forest floor, and comes to the realization that he doesn’t know what to do.  He has run out of provisions. Run out of ideas.

 

He’d had a plan before.  

 

Stop Ganon.

Stop the moon.

Find Zelda.  

 

The last one had taken years.  Five to be exact, because apparently time moved differently in Termina (of course it did) and when he left the forest and awoke staring Epona in the face, his clothes had grown tight and his body sore and lanky.  

 

He’d been terrified, a bout of memories flooding his mind and rendering him useless for more than an hour, curled up in the soil.  

 

It had been a miracle that nothing had found him.  Killed him. 

He wonders if miracle is the right word.  

 

So two years were gone in the span of three days and the next five were spent wandering the world back to the familiar cobblestone paths of Castle Town only to arrive in the middle of a royal procession.  

 

And he had seen her and remembered.

And she had seen him and not.

 

And then he had left.

  
  


Epona huffs softly when he approaches and places a hand on her snout, interrupting her meal.  He says nothing, just relishes her simple presence and contents himself with the idea that she, at least, knows him.  

 

She would not remember seven years and final battles, but she knows him. 

 

Epona snorts into his hand and he finds himself smiling for the first time in a long time, his cheeks stretching awkwardly.  

 

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs and presses his forehead to hers, humming a simple tune and wishing desperately that she could speak.  To hold a conversation with someone who recognised him; he never thought such a dream could exist, least of all so heavy in his heart.

 

He stays like that, pressed against his only companion, until his stomach growls like a wolfos and he’s forced to step back and find something to eat.  He’d not the time to stock up in Castle Town, too preoccupied with false hopes and disappointment, so he resigns himself to foraging for a meal, scrounging about until he returns to their makeshift camp with a handful of nuts and berries.  He munches on them in silence, pretending they’re enough to quell the ache in his stomach. 

 

Pretending that the ache in from hunger alone.  

 

The night comes on a cold wind and he curls around himself at the base of a tree, his fire long lost to embers.  He’s pulled an old blanket from Epona’s saddle bags, snuggling deeper into what little warmth it has to offer and he grips its frayed edges with cold fingers.  The memory of its origins are lost as he slips into sleep. 

 

He dreams of little horses running across a stitched plain. 

 

* * *

 

When morning finally peaks its way through the canopy, he’s already packed and ready to set out.  There’s no breakfast this morning, only a sip of water from his canteen, and then he’s off, urging Epona onward and through the trees.  The woods here are thick enough that he can see only the path in front of him, whatever lies beyond the forest is a mystery. He does not concern himself with it; he’s been gone too long to know this place like the back of his hand anymore, but the familiar feeling of exploration seeps into his bones as the day draws on and he finds that whatever weight had taken root in his chest has been loosened just enough that he forgets about Castle Town and the Princess and the years lost.  Epona moves beneath him, a solid grounding force, and he allows himself to sink into the feeling of freedom, no longer a burden, even if only in this moment.

 

They break through the tree line, kicking up dead grass and leaves, and emerge unto Hyrule Field like a coming storm.  Epona picks up speed, flying over the ground as he clings to her reigns, a laugh escaping past his lips despite his better judgements.  No monsters appear at his voice; the only beings that take notice are the birds that take flight as they pass and the distant herds of deer, lifting their heads to watch as he and his steed crash through the tall grass.  

 

Epona lets out a whoop of her own, her cries carrying up and over the field that stretches out before them.  He can see structures on the horizon, but they are too far away to make out. He thinks nothing of them, just pushes onward, slowing only once he can feel Epona begin to shake beneath him.  Despite her own exhaustion, she seems ever rearing to go, snorting and stomping once he finally eases her to stop. 

 

They are standing on the crest of hill, looking out over another section of the great plains.  He climbs from her saddle, patting her flank and she bends over and begins to graze. With his adrenaline fading, hunger sets in, his measly dinner and lack of breakfast having done nothing to hold him over till they reached another town.  In the back of his mind, he curses his own recklessness, too eager to get away from the hurt of it all, but then finds himself dwelling on all the things he had just forgotten. 

 

She hadn’t remembered him.  

 

The thought puts a sour taste back in his mouth and he grimaces, busying himself with searching for any nearby food sources.  

 

He wanders idly, kicking stones over.  Epona remains where he left her, content to eat her fill.  He returns to her side an hour later with nothing to show but a single grouse and a few leaves that may or may not be edible. 

 

He presents them to Epona, who sniffs them once before turning away.  He throws them over his shoulder and watches them float away down the hill.  

 

The ache has returned, settling now in his chest as he watches his grouse roast over the little flame he’s managed to make.  It sits like stone on his heart, echoing each beat, turning them into those of a war drum.

 

There’s a war happening in his chest and his mind and he doesn’t know if he’s going to be able to stop it this time; he’s not sure he can be his own Hero.  

 

The grouse comes out burned and he eats it anyways, picking small bones from his teeth.  By the time he’s done, the sky has grown dark with a coming storm and he curses his recklessness again; they have no shelter here on the field.  His moment of happiness has bought them what will surely be hours of misery. Epona winnies nervously, eyes wide as she too watches the sky, pawing at the ground.  He hushes her, running a hand down her neck and looks around for a solution. The structures from before are far behind them now and going back to Castle Town is an even longer trek; they wouldn’t make it halfway before the rain hit.  He turns, facing forward again. There’s something in the distance in front of them, beyond the hill, though it’s too far away to make out any details. Whatever it is, it’s large enough to see from where he stands and closer than anything else; it’ll have to do.  

 

He mounts Epona, shivering as a cold wind sweeps over them, creating ripples in the wild grasses, and clicks.  Epona begins to make her way down the hill. They go slow at first, but the rising wind forces them forward until Epona is galloping once more across the fields, except, this time, he clings to her with anxiety in his bones rather than excitement.  The first clash of lightning illuminates the sky above them and he thanks the goddesses (a rarity at this point) that they’ve gifted him the only horse to never startle at a storm. Instead, Epona continues, ever steady, even as thunder roars overhead.  

 

She has a confidence in her that he does not as she makes her way across the plains and he thinks, just as the rain begins to fall in sheets around them, blurring his view of the world, that she knows exactly where she is going.  

 

The rain comes down hard, soaking through his clothes in seconds and he finds his grip on Epona slipping.  His heart pounds in his ears and he closes his eyes. A cry escapes him, lost to the storm, and then suddenly his hair is standing on end, a tingle running down his spine.  Before he knows what’s happening he pushes himself from Epona, urging her to keep going, though he doubts she hears him. 

 

He hits the ground just as it explodes.  

The world around him shakes and then slips away. 


	2. Part 2

He wakes and he is cold, lying in wet mud and aching.He blinks, gaze vacant as it sweeps over the world in front of him - he is still in the field, rain drenched grasses only now just beginning to perk back up, and he struggles to rise, limbs protesting.His clothes are singed, the tattered edges of his sleeves blackened.They crumble away when he lifts a hand to touch them. 

 

He was struck by lightning. 

 

Or, rather, if the lack of serious wounds is anything to go by, the ground was struck by lightning, and he just happened to be within its vicinity when it happened.He’s able to lift himself so that he’s bent over on his knees and hacks, coughing up what little food had been in his stomach.

 

 _Link,_ he thinks to himself as he wipes bile from his mouth. _Get a grip._

 

He shakes his head, trying to chase away any of the remaining nausea that’s building and staggers to his feet.He is alone and shaking and he turns around, searching, but there is no trace of his steed. 

 

“Epona!”He calls out, hoping, but only the deafening silence of after-storm greets him.He tries again.“Epona?” 

 

Nothing. 

 

Link swallows, and brings his fingers to his lips, three sharp notes ringing out over the field.He waits, tension rising in his body, but there is nothing.He stands there, heaving breath after breath, eyes darting across the fields. 

 

“No… no no no,” he mutters and spins around, whistling again.Somewhere nearby, hidden in the grass, a bird chirps, but it’s not the response he’s looking for.“Please,” he whispers, desperation threatening to choke his words.“Please please _please_ …”

 

“Epona!” he cries again and whistles, the notes sharp in his ears.She’s never not come before. Never left him stranded without help. 

 

He yells in frustration, his voice cracking. 

 

“Epona!Epona, please!” 

 

He stands there, the silence suffocating.He is gasping, breath coming in sharp spurts and his hands are shaking so bad he can barely lift them to whistle again.

 

Epona does not come. 

 

He sinks to his knees. 

 

There is an emptiness he has tried to stave off filling his chest, expanding and pushing everything else out and up, into his throat.He brings his hands to his mouth, bending over so that his forehead rests on the ground in front of him, and tries to hold it back.He bites his cheek, but it is like a flooded river, swelling up and over the levies that line it’s edges and protect the careful facade he has crafted for himself.It pushes against his walls, spilling over in the form of tears that prick at his eyes and soft, muffled noises that escape past his lips and shaking fingers.He grits his teeth, but water is a force of nature that he knows can never truly be tamed. 

 

So he shudders, and gives in. 

 

There are no words - whatever sound he makes is rooted in emotion alone; not language.He lets go and the scream and the blood that fill his mouth, his throat tearing with the intensity that bursts forth, are animalistic and feral.He pounds the ground his fist, voice raw as he screams and rages and sobs over his loss, eyes clenched shut.He claws at the dirt and mud beneath him. 

 

He feels like he is small again, young; young like he was before the death of the Deku Tree, before fate decided to rear her ugly head.Young and scared of what lay beyond the borders of the forest and filled with the frustration of a young child who was different.He is alone; no fairy to guide him, a mark of his own disparity.No companion to stand beside him through the all his hardships, to provide warmth in the cold nights.

 

He wails, the sound echoing out over the surrounding plains and scaring birds into flight; they rise like the black cloud that hangs heavy over his head and he curses them, screeching profanities at their retreating forms.He has words again, and they spill from him at an alarming rate; never before has he said so much, had so much to say. 

 

“Hylia!”The name flies like spittle from his mouth.“Damn you!You fucking scourge upon me, demon goddess that you are!”He drives his fist into the ground again, cursing her with every punch.“What else will you take?!There is _nothing_!”He kicks his feet and feels like a child, but there is nothing left so he does’t care.“There is nothing else!I have nothing else!”He sobs, hands coming to clutch and rip at his own hair. “Nothing!”

 

The last word takes whatever energy he has left with it and then he is left in a puddle of his own despair, cold again.He shudders and collapses forward completely, empty in the wake of his outburst.Maybe he will feel shame later, if later every arrives, but for now the numbness that creeps into his limbs and mind is welcomed.He is still crying, but it is only the remnants of the fading storm, and a fog moves in and sweeps away any remaining emotion.He breathes in through his nose, staring unseeing. 

 

He does not sleep, but by the time the sun starts to set once more on the horizon, disappearing behind distant mountains, he has not moved except to turn his head and bury his face in the dirt. 

 

* * *

 

When she wakes that morning, warm and tucked snuggly into the thick quilt adorning her bed, she hums and thinks that maybe something new will happen today.The sun has not yet risen and her only greeting is the sound of blue birds.She peeks her head out from under the covers and, in the dim light of dawn, she can see them through her window, singing as they toil away at their nest.She smiles and tries to bury back into the comfort of her bed.Maybe, if she pretends to be asleep, so will the rest of the ranch. 

 

The crow of a cucco puts that thought to rest rather quickly and Malon sighs and rips the covers away.The chill in the air is jolting and she hops from bed and makes her way quickly across the room, the thin material of her nightgown offering little protection from the cold.She slips it off as she walks and stands bare in front her dresser, eyes closed.Her skin prickles, goosebumps rising on its surface, and she counts the seconds as they pass, shifting from one foot to another. 

 

She makes it to 27 before the cold becomes too much and she rushes to dress. 

 

She’s trying to tie her belt, her skirt catching it’s buckle to her frustration, when she hears her father finally stir down the hall.She listens quietly to him pad across the old floorboards and into the kitchen, humming a soft tune.Something clangs and she smiles as she hears him mutter over his morning tea.There’s another clang and a curse and she forgoes the belt for a sash instead, before exiting her room to help her father. 

 

Their breakfast is simple; Malon makes eggs in their old skillet, and then fries griddle cakes in the remaining oil, singing to herself as she does.Her father sits as their little table, nursing his cup of tea and watching her fondly.When she serves him his breakfast he smiles and remarks of her mother.Malon tries to smile, but the faded memories of a woman with red hair do little to stir up any true emotion, so she simply chides her father in not helping, which he jokingly apologizes to, and then calls out the window to Ingo.

 

The farmhand appears quietly from the barn and she watches him trudge to the farmhouse.He arrives in the kitchen and nods to her, a gruff thanks muttered under his breath when she gives him a plate, and the three of them sit in the still silence of the early morning.When the first light of the sun filters in through the kitchen window, Malon rises, taking their plates and placing them by the washing basin.Her father will do them later; for now she simply kisses his head as he and Ingo talk about the coming harvest, and then slips out the door to begin her chores. 

 

The morning is rather uneventful; she goes about her day as usual, collecting the eggs from the cuccos, milking the cows, feeding the goats.She brings the horses from the stable, opening the gate and watching with find exasperation as they romp about in the fields.The weather has grown colder in the past months, but the sun still warms the land enough that Malon can spend her free time here in the pasture with the horses.This year’s only foal, born early but alive despite the odds, makes her way over to where Malon sits on the fence.She’s nearly eight months now, weaned and proud, and Malon can’t help but laugh as she watches the little horse prance about. 

 

She reminds Malon of a another foal, long gone by now, off traveling the world if boy’s words were to be believed.She sighs and jumps down from the fence; it had been so long ago, she thinks.Sometimes, in the quiet of twilight, or the stillness of dawn, she wonders if it had been a dream. 

 

But Epona had been real; real enough that Malon had been punished harshly for giving her away so easily and for nothing more than a simple song. 

 

Malon chuckles at the thought as she starts back towards the ranch house; the cuccos will need to be fed again.She makes it about halfway when she hears Ingo calling, loping towards her and waving his arms. 

 

“Storm’s brewing,” he calls and points to where dark clouds have begun to gather to the west.“Best we bring the horses in.” 

 

Together they lead the horses back to the stables, settling them in despite their obvious annoyance at their outing being cut short.

 

“I’ll stay with ‘em in here,” Malon says as they close the last stall.Ingo nods, eyeing the coming storm with a grimace.Malon rolls her eyes.“Tell Papa to make sure the windows of the ranch are closed, ‘else all the rain’ll come pourin’ in.” 

 

Into seems hesitant to leave, but Malon simply turns back to calming the horses and then finally he’s gone. 

 

The storm hits with a ferocity Malon had not seen since the summer floods had destroyed part of the cattle hold.She shudders, thinking of the bloated bodies of the calves that had been trapped in their stalls, drowned in their own beds, and wraps her cloak around her tighter.She should have told Ingo or her father to bring her a blanket. 

 

“Papa’s probably awful worried ‘bout me,” she says to no one in particular; the horses are all pressed to the walls of their stalls, eyes wide and white as lightning illuminates the world outside.Malon wonders if the horse barn will flood.If she will be one of the bloated bodies that Ingo will drag out in the morning. 

 

Thunder shakes the world and the young foal a few stalls away cries out.Malon hushes her, unlocking the stall and slipping in.She closes the door behind her and turns to see the foal and her mother tucked into the corner.The foal shakes, pressed against her mother’s side, her ears pinned back against her head.She paws at the ground, her eyes blown wide.Malon approaches slowly, careful despite her own fear. 

 

“Easy, easy,” she whispers, a hand coming up to stroke the foal’s nose.She stays there until the foal calms, then returns to her stool in the main breezeway.Outside, the rain comes down in sheet, a steady drumming on the roof of the barn.Malon taps her feet against the ground and debates running to the house; it’s cold here and the horses are calm for now…

 

She doesn’t admit to herself that she is scared to be here alone.The thought of her father, and even Ingo, warm in front of their fireplace tempts her and a part of her curses her own dedication to the animals. 

 

 _“They’re just animals,”_ Ingo had said once, when she’d cried over the loss of a young goat to a coyote. _“More worried ‘bout the money it’ll cost us to replace it.”_

 

She’d nearly clocked him, right then and there, but she’d been young and the threat of no dinner or, Hylia, apologizing, had kept her from committing the act. 

 

Lightning flashes again and she swears, for a moment, that she sees something in the down pour, but it disappears with the light.Malon strains her eyes, searching, as thunder follows.Its another minute, where she almost convinces herself that it had been nothing, when lightning flashes again and she sees it once more. 

 

It’s with horror that she realizes it’s a horse. 

 

It’s not one of hers; she’d been meticulous in making sure all of them had gotten into the safety of the barn, but that doesn’t stop her from sprinting into the downpour, rope in hand.Whosever horse it is, Hylia it could be Ganon’s, she’s not going to leave it to die cold and alone in a storm.

 

When she reaches the frantic animal, she can barely make out it’s features in the rain.It rears when she approaches, a high pitched whinny escaping from it as it throws it’s head. 

 

“Yer alright, yer alright!”Malon cries and lunges; it’s wearing a saddled and bridal, though it’s rider is nowhere to be found, and she grasps at its reins with sure hands.The horse calms considerably once Malon has a hold of it and she begins to lead it back, the muffled lights of the ranch house their only guide in the store,.The whole way, Malon speaks to it, and the horse, to it’s credit, follows her obediently.

 

“Easy, easy,” she says and thinks of the foal.“Yer gonna be alright.I’ll keep you safe.” 

 

They make it back to the barn, drenched but alive, and Malon ties the horse’s reins to a nearby post.It’s still hard to see, the barn offering only the light of dimming candle, but Malon goes about helping her new charge.She removes its tack and saddle bags, laying them out as best she can to dry, then begins to dry it off, removing the layers of mud and dirt that coat its body.The horse is calm, even going so far as to nibble at Malon’s hair as she wipes its back.Malon chuckles.

 

“Aw, yer such a sweet… girl.”Malon stands back up, smiling, and continues her cleaning.Underneath, the horse’s coat a rich chestnut color and Malon raises an eyebrow. 

 

“Not many like you ‘round here,” she comments and the horse huffs.Malon pats her flank and pauses, her hand warm against the horse.She is reminded, again, for the second time today, of an old friend, and she shakes her head to clear her thoughts.She moves to the horse’s mane and tries not to think about it further when she reveals flaxen strands. 

 

“Hylia,” she mutters and moves to the horses face. 

 

She has a blaze. 

 

A lot of horses have blazes. 

 

Malon stares at the horse in front her, arm still raised with her cloth in hand, and tries. 

 

“Epona…?”

 

Epona, graceful as ever, leans forward to nuzzle Malon’s cheek, her breath warm. 


End file.
